The Boy Who Trained
by PanPixie
Summary: Ash Ketchum thinks he is an ordinary boy - until he is rescued by a Pidgeot, taken to Viridian Academy of Pokemon, learns to raise his own and does battle in a deadly fight. The Reason: ASH KETCHUM IS A POKEMON TRAINER!
1. Mr Drabble meets a Pokemon

Mr and Mrs Drabble, of number eight, Pallet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved with strange or mysterious creatures. They had a mightily plump, black-coated tomcat named Oscar, and the most remarkable and extraordinary thing he had ever done was to chase a mouse halfway across the kitchen tiles, before tiring and giving up and returning to his cushion by the doorway.

Mr Drabble had a managerial position in a large bank, generous travelling expenses and a very respectable salary. Usually found in an overlong and spotless charcoal suit jacket, he was a short, stumpy man with a vast forehead and protruding eyes which bulged furiously outwards and dared anybody to make fun of him. Mrs Drabble was thin and tall (a foot, at least, above her husband) and made a simpering smile of agreement with her heavily lipsticked mouth whenever he proclaimed his views. The Drabbles had a small four year old girl called Dawn, and in their opinion there was never a girl more precious.

The Drabbles were generally content in life, but they had a great secret, and if at all possible they planned to take it to the graves with them. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Ketchums and their goings on. Mrs Ketchum was Mrs Drabbles sister but Mrs Drabbles preferred to claim that she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her maniac of a husband were as unDrabbleish as it was possible to be. Thankfully, they hadn't heard from them in years, though word had reached them that the Ketchums had recently had a son. The Drabbles would have been perfectly happy to see the Ketchums, their freakish hobby and their little baby packed off to the ends of the earth. The last thing they wanted was for Dawn to be exposed to the company of her cousin.

When Mr and Mrs Drabble woke up on the bright, cloudless Friday our story starts (Mr Drabble in a pool of sweat, and Mrs Drabble with mascara smudged variously between her sharp cheekbones and her pillow) there was nothing about the sunlight streaming through the net curtains to suggest that strange and mysterious happenings were afoot.

As Mr Drabble shaved and splashed copious amounts of his 'Top Hat & Tall Task Cologne, "for the business-minded gentleman" ' onto his neck and wrists, he tried to shake off an uneasy feeling. He was sure his uneasiness was tied to a dream he had had just before waking. There had been a soft growling kind of noise and a funny warmth, but even as he tried to clarify them the details faded from his mind. Perhaps he had merely dreamed about microwaving some left over casserole, or perhaps Mrs Drabble had just snored into his ear.

Moving back into the bedroom to get dressed, Mr Drabble tread on something horrifically squelchy with his bare foot. Looking down, he couldn't believe his eyes. Right there, mashed between his toes and the light beige carpet, in what had moments ago undoubtedly been a neat little pile, were several large pieces of-

"P-Poo?" whispered Mr Drabbles, in disbelieving outrage.

"Oscar!" he said angrily, but only so loud that Mrs Drabble, who had gone downstairs, couldn't hear. Before the word came out of his mouth he knew the cat couldn't have done it. Oscar was well housetrained, and besides, the lumps were much too large and not the right colour.

At that moment, a large shape flitted past the nearest window. Mr Drabble thought he caught sight of a green wing. His already bulging eyes widened further with fear. _Growling_, _unnatural faeces_, _green wings_ ... But no! It couldn't be the case! It was only a dream. And it was only the cat. And that was just a magpie! He hurried back into the bathroom to wash his foot, repeatedly uttering the words "just a magpie" under his breath.

At half past eight, Mr Drabble finished his porridge and picked up his briefcase. He kissed Mrs Drabble and Dawn goodbye, neither of whom took much notice, as Mrs Drabble was trying desperately to interest her daughter in a pink and red palette of blusher while Dawn played determinedly with a black yo-yo. He gave Oscar, slumped on his cushion, a suspicious sniff and left the house.

As he got into his car he glanced across the street at the house opposite which was having major renovations done. It hadn't been occupied in the past four weeks; the family temporarily moving out rather than staying put as their downstairs was ripped away and replaced. There were no workmen on the site yet but Mr Drabble noticed an odd collection of very large boulders beyond the metal fencing lined up amongst the usual bricks and planks. What use could they possibly be put to? He was just turning the key in the ignition when what looked like a massive white eye blinked at him from the biggest of the rocks. Mr Drabble let out a gasp and the car lurched forward a couple of feet and cut out, whipping his head violently against the headrest.

He looked at the rock again and it was eyeless. But, of course it was... What could have been going through his head...? Massaging the back of his neck, he pulled carefully out of the driveway.

Mr Drabble arrived at work, convinced that he had been suffering from morning drowsiness and after washing down a double-espresso he was resolved to have a lucid, productive and above all _ordinary _day. His attention was soon taken over with phone calls and interviews, and the strangest creatures he witnessed all morning were a bluebottle which buzzed too close to his third mug of coffee and was crushed with his fist, and a frizzy haired nineteen year old delinquent whom he gleefully refused for a car loan.

It was only when he nipped out for lunch that his fears resurfaced alarmingly. He had just passed a stretch of grass surrounding a stone fountain, on his way back from the shop, on which a group of hitch-hiking teenagers were sitting cross-legged in a semi circle. The sight of this alone annoyed him. "Idle hippy types, probably leeching from the state" he murmured to himself. They were chattering in animated tones and he couldn't help but pick up a snippet of their conversation.

"The Ketchums, that's who it was-"

"Yeah, I heard their son Ash-"

Mr Drabble froze. That name was not welcome to his ears. Not welcome at all. He was debating whether to question the group when a small pair of eyes, this time unmistakably, peered over the lip of the fountain by which the teenagers were sitting. They were set in a head of scaly blue and behind this head rose a large coral shell. What creature was this? It appeared to be some kind of weird, tropical tortoise. The kids, still jabbering away, seemed not to have noticed it.

This was too much for Mr Drabble. Finding a voice and backing away he began to splutter and point, "There's a b-b-bloody t-turtle in the fountain!" The kids looked around and he began to gesticulate wildly, his eyes still on the creature. It was then that the little beast frowned at him put its paws onto the side of the fountain and, rearing up, opened its scaly mouth. A bubble immediately formed there, like gum blown by a child, and after a second it shot towards the scandalised Mr Drabble hitting him directly in the eye. It struck like a bullet of ice and exploded over his face. He fell backwards onto the pavement, dropping his fifth coffee all over his trousers.

Blinded by the creature's jet and scalded by the coffee, Mr Drabble tossed around on the ground in pain for a few moments until he sensed people standing over him. He heard someone shout, "Bad Squirtle, return!" and a red light flashed in his peripheral vision.

"Are you ok, Mister?"

_Squirtill? Ketchum? Ash?_

Mr Drabbles worst fears were confirmed.

He struggled to his feet, slapping away the hands that attempted to help him up. He was shaking and flushing. "I am fine, leave me be!" he snapped at the group who were now eying him curiously. His left eye was still stinging and he kept it shut. He was slightly annoyed to see that the curly haired boy standing opposite him, with a backpack hanging from one shoulder, was taller than him. "You should learn to control your Punkymon!" said Mr Drabbles. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Punkymon?" a girl laughed. "Don't you mean Pokemon?"

"Wow, are you a-" started the curly haired youth.

"I don't mean _anything!" _screamed Mr Drabbles, now shaking his fist "and I'm not an _anyone!"_

With that he turned and scurried in the direction of his parked car. He wasn't returning to work today. He would make up some excuse.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn Drabble had a very active imagination, even more so than should normally be expected of a four year old. She loved to make-believe and dress-up and have adventures, but while her mother would insist on buying her long pink dresses swimming with frills and golden bows peppered with glitters, Dawn preferred pirate costumes and toy guns and cowboy boots with plastic spurs.

Dawn was allowed an outfit of her own choice for every three of her mother's; with the result that the wardrobe in the corner of her room was overflowing with tiaras and princess slippers and the chest at the end of her bed contained her favourite stuff in the whole world.

It was dark outside as she lay at the end of her bed staring absent-mindedly at the end of a long red cape hanging out of the chest. Just that morning a lovely doggie with a bright orange coat had climbed up on top of it and put its paws on her bed, waking her up. She had never seen a dog like it before.

Dawn had much preferred the dog to their own cat, Oscar. It had seemed so much more intelligent, as if it could guess what she was thinking; like a little dog _person_. It had had a white tuft on its head like a furry crest and black stripes down its body like a zebra. The dog had climbed onto her covers and breathed out. A wonderful warmth had run all over her body and through her limbs and she had closed her eyes to enjoy it. By the time she had opened them again the dog was gone.

This wasn't the first time that Dawn had met a strange animal. Once, when she had been playing in her sandpit at the back of the garden she had heard a knock on the fence behind her. When she went to investigate she had seen some pink fur and a very large green eye peering at her through a gap in the wood. Then came the most magical song she had ever heard and she had lain right down on the grass and had felt like sleeping and dreaming forever.

Another time she had been out at the supermarket with her mommy and as they were walking through the car park a brown and cream coloured bird had flown down and perched right on her shoulder. She hadn't felt frightened, but rather excited. The bird had chirruped in her ear and she had had this overpowering urge to spread her arms out wide and take off into the sky herself. She was sure her feet had begun to lift from the ground so that her toes were just scraping the tarmac, but then her mommy had turned around and started screaming and running towards her, and the bird had flown away.

Dawn liked these animals and wondered where they came from. She could tell that they were special and would have loved to have adventures with them.

She had told her mommy about the dog that appeared in her room this morning, but mommy had said, "Don't be silly, dear. It was just a dream." Dawn was sure it wasn't a dream. There was still a paw print on her quilt cover. But her mommy never really listened to her.

Daddy had come home early today and was in a very bad mood.

Just then she heard a creak as somebody started climbing the stairs. It was past her bedtime so Dawn hurriedly slipped under her covers and pretended to be asleep. She heard her door open slightly as one of her parents put a head inside to check on her. Then she heard their voices, slightly muffled, in the hallway.

"Out like a light, the little angel," said her father, fondly, but then adopted a more serious tone. "Vivienne, I am _telling_ you what I saw today. A bloody creature of the deep, it was. And the rapscallions hanging around it- they confirmed it, Vivienne. The abnormal little buggers are in our city. Attacking law abiding citizens with water guns for mouths. I should take it up with the police!"

"You know you can't do that," said her mother, quietly. She sounded distressed. "But if Lucyor that _filth _have anything to do with this then I don't know what I'll do."

"The Ketchums," said Mr Drabble, bitterly. "If they come near my daughter I'm telling you I'll- I'll sue them 'till they can't afford to feed their freaking unicorns. But, really now, I can't see them hassling us, honey. They know where we stand with regard to their kind..."

Mr and Mrs Drabble had moved into their bedroom and Dawn couldn't hear them anymore. What were mummy and daddy talking about? She would like to meet a unicorn. She closed her eyes. Maybe there'd be one in her room when she woke up.

Rain began to fall hard against little Dawn's window as she drifted off to sleep. And across the street, beyond the metal fencing, next to the half-renovated house, the large pile of rocks began to shiver. Opening an eye, it stared out onto the empty stretch of road in front of number eight. A moment passed, and then, like the burst of a dying firework, the darkness was perforated by a burning glow of carnation pink and a man appeared sitting on the garden wall, as comfortably as though he'd just dropped into an armchair.

This man's name was Wilkins Hawkenberry. He was large, husky and majestic looking, with a lustrous, raven ponytail flowing down his broad back. His face, however, was etched with furrows of great age, and the veins on his hands were knotted like the branches of an old tree. His nose, prominent and snout-like, looked over a pair of thick lips which were well used to separating into grand smiles. Right now though, they were pursed together tightly.

He wore a tweed jacket over a woollen jumper of sky blue and his dark trousers ran down to an odd pair of shoes made of leather and spandex, with purple stitching and inflated tongues, like a cross between space boots and old doc martens. Dress sense aside, perhaps the most peculiar thing about Wilkins Hawkenberry was the glow of carnation pink which was dancing around his person, from jacket to trouser pocket and up around his head, over his back, lifting his ponytail for a moment like a draught of air, and chasing itself in circles around his ankles.

"Now, now," whispered Hawkenberry. "A bit of cover wouldn't go astray."

The glow streamed high above his head like a fairy light and in an instant a thick mist was pushing itself over the gardens of the nearby houses and up against the windows, hovering there like trapped cloud. The glow emitted a delighted squeak, ran twice around a chimney and glided back down, settling itself inside Hawkenberry's collar, its radiance barely visible. With another burst of pink light a long, slender object appeared in Hawkeberry's hand.

"Exquisite," he said, and, opening out a large golf umbrella and holding it aloft, he slid from the wall.

At this moment, the large pile of rocks which had been quietly watching everything unfold gave a deep rumble which reverberated in the street.

"But of course," said Hawkenberry, as if he had been expecting the noise, and he strode across to the edge of the building site. He stopped before a narrow gap, where one section of fencing linked onto another, and tickled his collar. The pink glow hummed deeply and the metal bars in front of him began to bend away from each other slowly allowing Hawkenberry to stoop, umbrella and all, into the cluttered front lawn. Picking his way around bricks and cement bags he walked up to the rocks in front of the house and, putting a hand on one of the largest, which stood as high as his chest, said, "Hello, Rockall. Finely camouflaged, I must say. "

The rock-creature turned its boulderish head towards Hawkenberry and grumbled a gratified greeting.

"And I presume you're not alone," said Hawkenberry. "May I?" He gestured with his hand.

The rock-creature indicated its assent and Hawkenberry clambered onto its back. It was in the grassy, sheltered space between the creature and the front door of the house, hidden from the outside, that a fat, middle-aged woman was asleep on a deck chair. There was a half finished bottle of lemonade on a rug stretched out beneath her, along with a packet of digestive biscuits, a teapot and a leather-bound book. Littered around the ground were countless cigarette butts.

To complete this bizarre picnic there was a small dog, with carrot coloured fur and black stripes, snoozing in the corner, heating a small pile of glowing coals every so often with its fiery breaths.

Hawkenberry, still perched upon the rock-creature's back, gave a sharp whistle. The orange dog awoke at once, and with a snort of flame, leapt up towards him, sniffing and licking excitedly. But the woman in the chair slept on. Stepping down onto the rug, Hawkenberry moved over to her and gently shook her shoulder. She did not wake.

Sighing to himself, Hawkenberry withdrew from his jacket what appeared to be a small and intricately carved wooden flute. He put it directly to his lips and, though he blew through it and his fingers moved across the openings, not a sound came from it. It must have done something however, because the expression on the sleeping woman's face rapidly changed. From the calm of peaceful slumber her features contorted into a clenched grimace of annoyance. With her eyes still shut, she raised her fleshy hands and began to swat the air, as though trying to beat away imaginary flies. An angry mumble escaped her and the colour began to rise in her face before her eyes flashed open. She was suddenly fully conscious and alert.

Hawkenberry lowered the flute from his lips.

"You!" the woman said, irritably. "Hawkenberry, you- you- you shouldn't have done that! You know I don't approve of that sort of messing."

"And you, Mrs Mother," said Hawkenberry, with a shrewd smile, "know that I don't approve of sleeping tablets."

Mrs Mother's hand drifted self consciously across her overcoat pocket. "Yes, well, I don't believe I care very much for an old fogey's opinion, do I? You're lucky I didn't _leave. _How long did you expect me to wait here? And why here of all places?" Her cheeks puffed out in an exhalation of anger. "And now that we're on the subject, _what the hell do you want_? I had four pidgey pies just out of the oven before your blasted message came, and they're never better than when they're fresh, Wilkins!"

Hawkenberry gave a chuckle, but stopped short when he saw the expression on Mrs Mother's face.

"Here, because it is here that something must be delivered," said Hawkenberry, seriously "and it is precisely that that I need your help with, if you will be so kind. And I do apologise for my tardiness. I got caught up in the festivities. There was a brilliant parade through Lavender Town."

Mrs Mother's jaw dropped in childish longing. "I wanted to go to a _parade_! But you, Mister-a-matter-of-great-****ing-emergency had me sitting here since dawn!"

"And you have my apologies," said Hawkenberry. "There will be plenty of time for parades, I think, but just now," he looked upwards, "we must attend to something else."

Down out of the dark clouds a great figure was descending. As it dove lower it revealed itself as a monstrous bird, cutting diagonally through the swirling rain on lengthy, powerful wings, growing larger and larger by the second.

"Sergeant Wingo," said Mrs Mother. "I should have guessed."

"Yes, I suppose you should have," said Hawkenberry, amusedly. "I think it will be necessary to meet him on the road."

In a flash of light, the rocky creature surrounding them vanished and they were exposed to the elements once more. Mrs Mother heaved herself out of the deck chair and folded it easily into a handbag at least five times too small. Gathering up the rug and other items she joined Hawkeberry under his umbrella and they strode across the cluttered lawn, the orange dog at their heels.

They came onto the street just as the giant bird landed, sweeping them with a mighty wind. With a wingspread that eclipsed the transit van behind it and talons like elephant tusks, it stood before them pompously and shook its massive head. Its fawn and grey feathers formed a glistening mountain of plumage and a magnificent gold and scarlet head-crest swam back over the bird's body like a bejewelled cape.

Hawkenberry nodded to the bird and made no further movement but merely watched, as if waiting for something to happen. Mrs Mother wore a look of nervous exasperation.

Then, without warning, the bird's eyes burned with colour and out of the feathers of the great beast's back, a tiny man, the size of a lamp and dressed in a full suit and tie, sprung into the air. But instead of falling through it he merely hovered there for a few seconds like an overgrown insect before spreading his arms and diving impressively towards Hawkenberry and Mrs Mother. It proved an ill-executed manoeuvre, however, for he hit the rain splashed road at speed and rolled head over heels, stopping by their feet, his little face bleeding and staring up at them.

Ignoring his injury and soaked suit, the miniature gentleman jumped to his feet and saluted the two of them in turn.

"Mrs Mary Mother, Chancellor Hawkenberry, Charles L. Wingo at your service. Or, I should say, _in_ yours, Chancellor." With this announcement he turned and scuttled importantly underneath his steed, disappearing through a curtain of low-hanging feathers. Mrs Mother, looking infuriated for some reason, cocked an eyebrow at Hawkenberry who looked like he was trying very hard to conceal a grin.

The little man reappeared holding a bundle of sheets. The bundle being slightly larger than him and rather obstructing his vision, he tottered with it towards the two onlookers and pushed it up into Mrs Mother's hands, the first place of safety he could identify.

He then puffed up his chest and wiped his hand over his brow, unconsciously smearing blood across his forehead, and said, "My work here is now complete. And I must away!"

The eyes of the giant bird had ignited in colour again and the little man floated upwards gracefully before twisting in the air and shooting off in a random direction, crumpling once more in a heap. This time he seemed unable to recover as readily and feebly uttered, "A tad more practice required to perfect flight mechanics then..."

"You idiotic fecking midget, Wingo!" began Mrs Mother, furiously, still clutching the bundle he had passed to her and marching over to where he lay, looking over her shoulder warily. "Why would you risk it at all? I can't believe you! Drawing directly on your Pokemon's powers like that out in the open! Have you no common sense or is that pea brain of yours really the size of a -"

She ceased her censure mid sentence as the bundle of sheets in her arm started to whimper.

Peeling back a piece of cloth Mrs Mother revealed the head of a crying baby, no more than a few months old. She gave a slight gasp and her expression softened. "But who?"

Hawkenberry stepped forward with his umbrella to shelter Mrs Mother and the baby once more. "This is Ash Ketchum, Mrs Mother," said Hawkenberry, gently. "Wingo has rescued him, at my request, from a scene of great horror."

"And has done so admirably," he added, nodding to Wingo who was getting to his feet, wetted and dazed but looking rather pleased with himself.

"Incidentally," continued Hawkenberry, "Wingo does not deserve your condemnation. As I thought you might have guessed already, there is now no more danger associated with drawing power than, well," he gestured at Wingo with a smile, "than bumping your own head."

"Actually, how did you orchestrate that?" he asked Wingo, curiously.

"Tail feather and about ten minute's visualization at three thousand feet," said Wingo. "Overcharged slightly."

"Force shouldn't have been such an issue if your steering was properly synced with Pidgeot's though," said Hawkenberry, thoughtfully. "But anyway," he addressed Mrs Mother again, "we are, I think I can say, _safe_. As safe as we have been for years, my dear Mary."

"There's safe for you, Hawkenberry and safe for the rest of us!" said Mrs Mother, uncompromisingly, still staring at the child in her arms, an odd expression on her face.

"You flatter me," said Hawkenberry. "The last time I checked I did not possess invulnerability. But we are all, as I say, now at liberty to draw without worrying."

"As if they'd ever have ever come after you," muttered Mrs Mother, distractedly. "But this is _his _child, Hawkenberry. You expect me to-?" Her distress was apparent.

"I expect you to do whatever you feel is right," said Hawkenberry. "And I think you will do it better than I ever could, if you choose to."

Mrs Mother continued to stare at her restless little charge, her glance roaming over his small pearl eyes and mewling mouth. Even as she looked torn by a decision, she hugged the bundle closer to her bosom.

"I will, whatever you decide, need to explain his sudden arrival to his relatives," said Hawkenberry, turning towards number eight.

Wingo, who had perhaps up until this point been wondering why they were on this particular street at all, looked curiously between the house, the baby and Hakwenberry, but did not ask any questions. Mrs Mother was still absorbed in studying the child.

"If you don't mind," whispered Hawkenberry, seemingly to himself, and the bright glow of carnation pink re-emerged from somewhere inside his collar, floated across the garden of number eight and moved through the thick mist covering its walls.

Dawn Drabble sat up in her bed. She had awoken suddenly with an irresistible desire to fly which she was sure had nothing to do with what she had been dreaming about. She looked out of her window but couldn't see anything but whiteness. It was like looking into a cloud.

She lay back and dozed again until a bright glare disturbed her. A powerful pink light was shining through the crack in her door, coming from the hallway. After a brief moment it faded away. Jumping out of bed, she tiptoed to the door and opened it, peeking around the edge.

The door of her parents' room was ajar and what Dawn saw when she looked inside made her heart jump. Her mother was sitting bolt upright in bed but her eyes were firmly shut and her body was completely rigid. There was pink light, like the beam of a laser, coming out of each of her ears and a strong humming sound swelled and diminished like a spiralling bumblebee. Dawn was too frightened to call out. Why didn't mommy or daddy wake up?

As if sensing her presence, the pink light darted away from her mother and resolved in midair into a gleaming glow. Dawn watched in horror as her mommy fell back onto the pillow soundlessly and the pink glow rushed out of the room towards her.

Six and a half hours later Mrs Drabble got up, her eyes unfocused, and walked like a robot out of her room. She found it perfectly normal that her daughter was asleep in the hallway. Stepping over her she continued downstairs and mechanically opened the front door of the house. There was a bundle of sheets on the doorstep surrounded by a pink bubble. This did not trouble Mrs Drabble; indeed she seemed to expect it. The pink bubble popped into nothingness and she bent down and scooped up the bundle, waking the baby nestled within. The baby gave a demanding wail. It was probably hungry. Mrs Drabble decided she had better feed it.


End file.
